


People Like Us (Are Meant to Cross Paths)

by sweeterthankarma



Category: Jessica Jones (TV), Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Female Characters, F/F, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Not AU but it kind of fits into their storylines wherever you'd like to put it, Or Post-Canon, Pre-Canon (?), The crossover we deserve, hook-ups
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 10:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14892642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma
Summary: “Afraid of flying?” Jessica asks, and before Wynonna can respond to say no, she hums a bit under her breath, a sound of recognition, maybe. “I wouldn’t have figured, you look so unaffected.”There’s a tiny flicker of a smile on her lips, so subtle Wynonna thinks she likely imagined it— she’s overtired, and this woman’s introduction was so aggressive it’s not strange for her mind to wonder what her happiness would look like. She ushers over a stewardess, asking for a glass of bourbon, and Wynonna holds up a hand.“Make it two.”or,Wynonna doesn’t know where she’s going, but she needs to get out of Purgatory. Jessica doesn’t know where she’s going, but she needs to get out of New York. They both decide that Norway sounds like a good idea.





	1. An Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I recently got into Jessica Jones and immediately started dreaming up possibilities of a crossover with Wynonna Earp. I found a shipping prompt on Tumblr and ran with it: “You sat next to me on the airplane and fell asleep on my shoulder and I don’t want to move you cause you look so comfortable. Oh and you’re hot.”

Wynonna’s never minded flying, but she’s always hated waiting. The four and a half hour flight hadn’t even made her shift so far, the but now they’re stopped in New York City, a surprise layover, and she’s fidgeting, annoying the person sitting behind her by how often she adjusts her armrest. Blessed with an empty seat beside her, she undoes her seatbelt, presses her back to the window, and puts her feet up on the flat cushion, ignoring the glare the nearest stewartess gives her, already having to ask her to please sit forward and rebuckle at least three previous times. 

They’ve been at JFK for an hour and fifteen minutes, and the layover was only meant to be an hour so Wynonna decided there was no point in leaving and trying to find food or some shitty magazine about celebrities she didn’t care about in a foreign terminal she didn’t know how to navigate. She didn’t want to risk missing her flight, especially not today — she wants to be away, and wants to be away fast. Sometimes the quickest way to make time pass is to do nothing at all, to give yourself nothing to look back at and use as a reference for time being wasted.

Wynonna turns her phone over in her hands, occasionally checking it for notifications despite knowing there’ll be nothing there. Gus is mad at her, and there’s barely any cell service on the runway anyways. 

The pilot announces takeoff in less than ten minutes, and Wynonna rights herself, sighing and refastening her seatbelt.

    “About time,” she mutters to herself, and then rolls her eyes. She’s finally reached the point where she’s talking to herself, alone, and it’s pitiful. She heaves another breath and gives the baby in front of her a blank, expectant stare. He peers at her through the seats and cracks a smile anyways. 

Right when the engine starts to grow from a low hum to a deeper kind of vibration, there’s a loud repetitive thumping noise from the front of the plane. Everyone, Wynonna included, sits up a little straighter, gets a little quieter, and looks ahead.

    “Can you open the goddamn door?” a voice calls, loud and tense— a woman. The stewardesses circle near the door, hesitant before moving to the entrance and going out of view. Seconds later, a dark haired woman bustles past them, tossing her bag over her shoulder to fit down the aisle, hurrying towards the nearest open seat. She doesn’t seem to have a ticket, at least not out to be checked, and no one stops her; she walks with a sort of entitlement and empowerment that even Wynonna can’t help but watch with attention. 

There’s an empty seat in the two rows in front of her, and both passengers in the window seat move something to their left to make it seem occupied. It’s obvious, especially as the woman stalks past them, and she gives them a pointed look to show them she notices. 

She sits beside Wynonna because there’s no other choice, besides a frightened looking preteen boy a few rows behind, and she sits down with a loud, “Jesus.” She wrestles with her bag under the seat back compartment and it’s too big, obviously not going to fit no matter what she does, but Wynonna stays quiet, pushing her own bag a little further into her own space, as if it’d make a difference for her neighbor. 

A stewardess comes over, informing her that she’ll need to use the overhead, and the woman stands up before she’s done with her recited statement. 

    “Yeah, yeah, I know, I have eyes,” she says, opening her bag and pulling out a few items before sitting back down. The stewardess walks sheepishly away.

    “Rough day?” Wynonna asks, and it’s almost suggestive, in a way her voice usually isn’t, at least not towards girls, and especially not towards girls she’s known for less than five minutes. She doesn’t know where it comes from, but she also knows her eyes don’t leave the woman’s face. Her skin is pale, cheekbones ridiculously prominent, and her lips are red, almost swollen, and she recognizes their chappedness as similar to her own. She has a feeling this woman’s had a worse week than she has. 

    “Yeah, you could say that,” she replies, and her voice isn’t angry, not like it had been before, but instead just tired. The plane lifts off the ground and the woman claims the armrest between them, closing her eyes and tipping her head back as that familiar feeling of surrealness sweeps over the cabin. 

    “I’ll never get used to that feeling,” she says, dodging elaboration.

    “Yeah, me neither,” Wynonna responds. “I’ve flown so many times and I still don’t understand the science behind it. I’m not sure I want to, anyways.”

The lights dim, brightness coming only from the minuscule televisions that glide down from the ceiling, and the woman tips her head ever so slightly. 

    “Afraid of flying?” she asks, and before Wynonna can respond to say no, she hums a bit under her breath, a sound of recognition, maybe. “I wouldn’t have figured, you look so unaffected.”

There’s a tiny flicker of a smile on her lips, so subtle Wynonna thinks she likely imagined it— she’s overtired, and this woman’s introduction was so aggressive it’s not strange for her mind to wonder what her happiness would look like. She ushers over a stewardess, asking for a glass of bourbon, and Wynonna holds up a hand. 

    “Make it two.”

The woman raises her eyebrows at her, and now she definitely gives her a smile. A small one, but still a smile.

    “Good taste,” she comments, and Wynonna wonders if she’s already drunk because her eyes flick up and down her body, quick but unquestionable. 

    “I’m more of a whiskey girl, but I’ll drink whatever you’re offering. Bourbon’s second place, maybe third behind some scotch.”

The woman nods emphatically in agreement. “There’s nothing like some good aged scotch.”

Then she holds out a hand. “Jessica.”

    “Wynonna.”

Her grip lingers for just a second, and then the stewardess arrives with the drinks. Jessica thanks her, and it isn’t sarcastic, and Wynonna’s surprised. She takes a quick sip, then turns forward again and grimaces.

    “I thought I was talking with an alcohol connoisseur,” she comments. 

    “You are,” Jessica replies, not meeting Wynonna’s eyes. She stares straight ahead until she takes another drink, and then she finally looks away. “I hate superhero movies.”

    “Oh.” Wynonna hadn’t even noticed the movie that had been on. Something dated, likely from the late 00’s plays, pixelated and with poor special effects, on the multiple screens before them. 

    “No one would ever want to be a superhero, not in real life, not if they were given the chance. Everyone wants to say they would, but they’d all run from the opportunity in a heartbeat.”

Jessica’s voice is serious, almost enough to make Wynonna question her, but she gets it. Jessica doesn’t need to elaborate and there’s no reason for Wynonna to even mention the curse, to mention all she’s been through and how the only reason she’s even on this plane to a city she doesn’t know how to pronounce is because no one will think to find her here. Especially not the demons, now that they’ve found a way out of the Ghost River Triangle. This is all really a shot in the dark; she’s banking on the hope that revenants don’t know anything about Europe, or planes or boats. 

Instead Wynonna just nods. “Yeah, the costumes are enough to make me run. Wedgies while getting light-sabered into unconsciousness? No, thanks.”

Jessica smirks. “I think you’re confusing genres there, but I have to agree. The most unrealistic part of the whole thing is that there’s no hero who’s doing it all in jeans.”

    “Or sweatpants, let’s be real,” Wynonna replies, and she notices how easy their banter comes, without even trying. “But girl, have you seen the crossovers they’re doing nowadays? I’m pretty sure dinosaurs live in space now.”

Jessica laughs, takes another drink. “Entertainment nowadays. I don’t get it, but I don’t get most things people like anyways.”

Wynonna’s jaw nearly drops, but her lips quickly form into a smile. Her hand slaps down onto the armrest. “Dude,  _ same,”  _ she says emphatically. God, she thinks, it’s hard to find people in the world who won’t kill themselves for emojis or some rainbow colored high-fructose corn syrup filled “coffee”, note questionable quotations.

Jessica smiles at her, the first genuine smile she’s given since takeoff without any hint of snark behind it, and then pokes Wynonna’s shoulder. 

    “I should have known based on the leather jacket,” she says, then pulls away her down winter coat — black— to reveal a worn black leather jacket underneath. 

    “I live in this thing,” she says, and Wynonna agrees. “I figured I’d need an actual coat in Norway, though, since it’s significantly colder than New York. Still, I’ve made it through every Manhattan winter somehow.”

    “Try western Canada,” Wynonna says. “Calgary is a brutal bitch in the winter, I’m not even worried about this.”

Jessica looks her up and down, briefly but noticeably, and gives her another smirk. It’s becoming familiar to Wynonna already, the way her mouth curves, almost devilishly, and her eyes honest to god sparkle. It’s sickening how much she’s hanging onto every word she’s saying, and how much she hopes Jessica is doing the same. She inches closer, and thinks she must be, she has to be; her arm brushes hers.

    “You’re Canadian, huh? I knew something about you was different.”

Wynonna snorts. “You say that like I just revealed that I’m one of those superheroes in tighty-whities.” She points up at the screens in front of them. 

    “I could see that, too,” Jessica replies, and Wynonna doesn’t know whether she’s talking about the superhero thing or the underwear thing. 

  
  


The conversation doesn’t necessarily fade, but they both keep yawning, keep ordering drinks and eating shitty airplane peanuts, flinging them at each other and laughing, loud, and irritating the passengers around them when they swear even louder. 

    “I think you just got a peanut shell in my eye,” Wynonna chokes out between bursts of laughter. Jessica hands her an unopened pack as a consolidation gift, leaning against her shoulder a little more than she needs to— the space is close and cramped, but not  _ that  _ close and cramped. She sighs, looking up at the movie screens. The superhero film’s credits had rolled not more than two minutes ago, and already there’s a new one on, likely a sequel. They both scoff at the same time, but end up watching.

Jessica stays close, and Wynonna’s trying to watch the movie but she swears she’s inching a bit closer every second. She’s half-asleep herself so she may be moving too, but it’s undeniable that it’s mutual. Her eyes don’t focus on the movie, instead the world becomes unrecognizable figures and colors as her eyelids drift shut, but not before she notices Jessica’s head falling on her shoulder as steady, shallow breaths escape her mouth. 

 

When they wake up, both their backs are sore, sharp pain shooting along their joints as they stretch. The plane touches down, skidding on the runway, and Jessica grabs her bags, ignoring the stewardess that begs her to please not do that yet. Wynonna just smiles at her, and looks away, blushing,  _ god damn it,  _ when she smiles back. Who is she? Wynonna Earp does not blush. But she thinks of Jessica’s head on her shoulder when she woke up, thinks of how she awoke before her and yet she still kept it there, and she can’t help herself. 

They stall when they step into the airport, both jetlagged and disoriented — they’re both new to Norway, and Wynonna thinks it’d be wise, all confusing emotions aside, to stick together. 

    “I stuck something in your pocket,” Jessica says, staring straight at Wynonna. She’s fearlessly blunt, and it strikes a chord with Wynonna. She’s flustered, again, and she hates it. 

She reaches into her pocket to find a folded piece of paper, a number scrawled across it in smudged black ink. Jessica raises her eyebrows, and puts a hand to Wynonna’s arm. 

    “I’ll see you around, Wynonna?” she says, and it’s almost a question, almost a dare. 

Wynonna steps closer. “See you around, Jessica.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jessica and Wynonna are interesting and kind of difficult to write together because they're both so similar, but this was a lot of fun and I definitely want to make this at least a two shot, or maybe make it into a series. Let me know if you enjoyed this and have any ideas or suggestions— I was planning a hookup next chapter, because come on, they're alone and the only people they know in Norway...it would happen. Come talk to me in the comments or on my Tumblr messages/inbox under the same username!


	2. You Know This is What I Wanted, Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns the updated mature rating for the story, so if sexual content isn't your thing, proceed with caution. Either way, enjoy these two badasses together again.

It’s days before Wynonna texts Jessica, and she blames the delay on the basis that she was just too overwhelmed and preoccupied with Norwegian culture. It’s a lot to take in, after all: the language, the culture, the food and the priciness of everything. She doesn’t nearly have the money, nor think she’s going to earn the money at some shitty part time job, to pay off her credit cards, but she’ll wing it. That’s what she always does.

The bars are the same, at least. Despite the heavy accents and bar fights that contain more Norwegian insults than English ones, she finds solace in them as she always has, and the vodka’s much fancier.

Wynonna’s a little surprised she doesn’t run into Jessica after how often she’s been frequenting the bars. Multiple different bars, too. 

It’s not that she’s going out of her way to look for her, really, but she’d expected to see her again.  _ Wanted  _ to see her again. 

But Wynonna Earp doesn’t crush or pine or daydream, so when she does text Jessica she doesn’t explain her tardiness. She doesn’t need to, she reminds herself. She owes this woman, this  _ stranger  _ nothing. They’re just friends, acquaintances, airline passengers that will likely never meet again. 

Wynonna can’t explain why she feels the need to convince herself of the insignificance of their relationship, if she can even call it that— or why the idea of never seeing Jessica again makes her regretful and more lonelier than she already is.

She’s sure she’s busy, anyway. She never said why she was coming to Norway, what she needed to do or whether or not she was staying, but Wynonna can read between the lines. It’s not a vacation for either of them. 

Wynonna likes being alone, though, as hypocritical as that is to be simultaneously wishing for her phone to light up with a New York phone number. Still, she sleeps in her cheap rental apartment, doesn’t mind the lukewarm showers because the water’s warmer than the air outside, and the coffee isn't bad here either.

Eventually Jessica texts her back, few words but all quip, and Wynonna thinks she can hear her voice in her head, even after almost a week since hearing it in person. Jessica wastes no time, she invites herself over to Wynonna’s place with a lead of “you got whiskey? I’m all out.” Wynonna kind of swoons.

Her subconscious understands how she feels better than she does, especially in an intoxicated state, so she doesn’t dwell on it because she’s insisting there’s no point. Every time she thinks she recognizes it— that dull spark in her chest and the fantasies building in her mind, affection or lust or whatever, she drinks. And drinking doesn’t help, not really, not in the long run, but it makes the fall easier when she remembers that she needs to stay grounded and stay isolated.

Besides, she doesn’t have time to think. She has to clean; Jessica’s on her way, and she’s only half an hour out. 

Something about this woman just has her caught up, and it becomes clear when she opens the door and Jessica walks right in like it’s her own home.

She goes to the whiskey immediately, leans against the kitchen counter as she pours herself a glass— in Wynonna’s already used glass— and downs it. She gives Wynonna a small, courteous smile as thanks, and sighs, “I needed that.”

Wynonna nods. “I always need it.”

Jessica raises her eyebrows. “How many bottles you got?” she asks, and Wynonna wonders if she’s going to rob her.

    “Three,” she replies, telling the truth. “Not enough.”

Jessica lets out a small laugh. “There’s never enough. Especially with the prices here.”

    “Right?” Wynonna counters, and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, even though the conversation is flowing and it isn’t awkward but there’s something in the air that isn’t just friendly and she feels it radiating off the other woman. 

She’s standing there, cheeks red from the cold, same leather jacket draped around her shoulder that she wore on the flight. Her hair seems a little wavier. 

Wynonna stops staring, grabs herself a glass and another drink, and she’s saying something about Norwegian McDonald’s that she isn’t really paying attention to, so god knows what story she’s fabricated this time, but she notices Jessica’s eyes on her as she moves and she’s distracted. Jessica is sizing her up and making no effort to hide it, and Wynonna can’t hide that she’s doing the same. 

She clears her throat and gestures towards the couch, then says, a little awkwardly, “do you want to sit?”

Jessica tilts her head, drinks another glass. She looks at Wynonna curiously. “For what?”

There’s a pause as Wynonna calculates what to say next. The alcohol leaves a warm heat coating her throat, and she’s feeling it in her head now. She’s also feeling something else, a little lower in her body, as Jessica takes her coat off and steps closer. Too close for Wynonna to miscalculate what this meeting is.

    “Do you…” Wynonna starts, and Jessica’s quick to respond, “yes.”

She’s toying at the hem of her shirt, fidgeting maybe, but Wynonna sees a bare strip of skin and reaches out a hand, instinctively and without even really knowing what she’s doing, and touches her.

Jessica steps closer until they’re chest to chest, and her fingers come up to Wynonna’s neck, up almost to her cheek, tangling in her hair. Wynonna’s hand finds her hip, the belt loop of her jeans, and she stares at her long and hard, intense and daring and almost competitive, before giving in and kissing her.

She tastes sweeter than Wynonna would have expected. Her hands are more calloused than they look, and she likes the feeling of them on her jaw, on her skin and up her back far more than she’d like to admit.

Jessica’s quick to slip in her tongue, briefly nipping at Wynonna’s bottom lip, and Wynonna reciprocates with a mumbled hum against her mouth before doing the same motion to her. Jessica smiles, they almost clash teeth, and when Wynonna initiates the next kiss she tugs at her lip with her teeth, just a little. 

    “You know this is what I wanted, right,” Jessica says between kisses, and Wynonna didn’t even notice when she took her shirt off but it’s discarded on her floor, and she nods.

    “I thought we’d have a little more conversation beforehand,” Wynonna admits, taking her hand and leading her into the small, dimly lit bedroom, “but I’m not complaining in the slightest.”

Jessica smiles again, and Wynonna decides that she likes when she does that. She dips in for another kiss, curling her fingers around the base of her neck as her other hand trails up her stomach.

    “We can talk after, if you want,” Jessica says, but she sounds disinterested. “If I’m being upfront, I think we did enough talking on that flight, and we both knew it was leading up to this.”

Her eyes glint dangerously in the dark, and Wynonna lets out a breath. She’s  _ gorgeous,  _ and whatever game she’s playing, not only does she play it well, but Wynonna’s hooked.

    “Do you agree?” she asks, almost taunting, and Wynonna’s pulls off her own shirt in response. This earns a chuckle from Jessica, who’s slipping out of her jeans, and before Wynonna can feel triumphant about causing that smirk on her face, she’s pinned to the wall.

Jessica’s hands cover hers, warm against her belt buckle. “I’ll do this,” she says, bending to pull them off, and she kisses down her legs, slow and ridiculously hot. Wynonna just watches. 

When she’s just about to reach the bottom of her underwear she stops, stands up, and slams her lips to Wynonna’s again.

It’s rushed and a little sloppy and Wynonna can taste the whiskey on Jessica’s tongue, getting her even drunker. Jessica’s hands dart behind Wynonna’s thighs, hooking her legs around her waist and lifting her up, and Wynonna’s a little amazed at how effortlessly she does it. 

She drops Wynonna unceremoniously on the bed, hovers over her, but there’s a lingering moment where neither of them do anything, so she rolls over to her side.

    “Scared?” she asks, only half teasing, and Wynonna’s quick to respond, “no.”

But she’s drunk enough that she admits, “I’ve never done this before.”

Jessica scoffs, but gives her a relatively intrigued look. She brushes a hand through her hair, propping her arm against the pillow beside her as she says, “the way you were kissing me, I don’t believe that.”

    “I’ve kissed girls,” Wynonna insists. “I’ve just never...done anything else with them. I’ve always just been drunk enough to kiss them.”

Jessica arches her eyebrows. “Are you saying you’re only into me because you’re drunk?”

Wynonna surprises herself by how eagerly she responds, “no, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I was into you the second I saw you.”

Jessica smiles at this, sitting up to look deep into Wynonna’s eyes. She’s honest to god never looked so endearing, and Wynonna lurches up to find her lips with her own. Jessica kisses her back with fervor, a kind Wynonna’s never really tasted before from men, and she can’t help but wonder why it’d taken her so long to realize that she wanted this, she really really always wanted this. 

Only when Jessica flips her over does she murmur, “I’m not afraid to touch you.” A pause. “Or fuck you.”

    “Funny,” Jessica replies, “because I might beat you to it.”

Her hand slips, unwaiting, beneath Wynonna’s underwear, and she strokes her slow, but hard enough to make her breath catch. She keeps her gaze on her as she adds another finger, then another, before dipping slower and deeper, almost to her entrance but not quite. 

Wynonna shudders, and Jessica just smiles again. “You really don’t know what you’re missing out on, with girls.”

It takes all of Wynonna’s strength to move, to flip them over again and therefore cease Jessica’s ministrations, but then she tugs her underwear off and orders Jessica to do the same, and she can’t help the thrill that rushes through her at the dominance. Jessica’s eyes light up when Wynonna practically snaps, “bra too.”

The woman is naked and gorgeous before her, pale skin practically glowing in the dim light, and Wynonna doesn’t know where she wants to begin; she bends to kiss her because she can, intense and languid as her hand runs along her side, feeling her ribs beneath. 

Jessica arches her back when she reaches her thighs, and it’s hard for her to lay still when Wynonna’s hands go everywhere. On her neck as she sucks bruises against her chest, on her shoulders as she kisses her navel, down her legs and behind her knees and even down to her ankles, tantalizingly eager but holding out. She wants Jessica to beg, wants her to wait and need and ache, and when she dares to slip a finger against her folds, up and deep into her wetness, she knows she does. 

Wynonna sucks a kiss against her clit, licking the wetness that surrounds it as she presses a little deeper with another finger this time; Jessica’s shaven for the most part, little dark hairs rough against Wynonna’s lips every now and then, and she likes it. 

Jessica lets out a cry so deep Wynonna has to flick her gaze upward to make sure she didn’t drastically fuck something up, but it seems to be the opposite— Wynonna’s fingers are buried deep inside of her, barely moving as she lets her adjust, and Jessica’s eyes are closed, into it. 

    “Too soon?” Wynonna murmurs against her clit, and the vibrations earn her another whine. Her thrusts grow more frequent after Jessica mutters, “no, not at all.”

    “How did you know, this is just how I like it,” Jessica mutters half into the pillow, half into her own arm thrown across her face as Wynonna’s added a third finger and kept her musings on her folds infrequent, but intense. When she sucks against her clit again she accidentally grazes her with teeth, and Jessica’s legs start to shake.

    “Fuck, Wynonna, do that again,” she pants, and Wynonna obliges. 

She comes with a shudder, legs wrapping around Wynonna’s back as one hand comes to her shoulder and the other grabs a fistful of hair, and then she laughs. 

    “What?” Wynonna asks, dazed— she may or may not have just come from that alone. 

Jessica shakes her head, wiping sweat from her brow. “This is gonna be dangerous, babe,” she says. “If you can fuck me like that on the first night, on the first time you’ve ever been with a woman, you’re gonna become unstoppable.”

Wynonna shrugs, unable to bite back a grin. “So, this should become a regular thing, right?”

Jessica kisses her again, tasting herself on her lips, and then nips a kiss against her jaw. “You tell me.”

She’s flipped Wynonna onto her back again, but then she freezes, changing her mind, thinking.

    “What?”

A grin teases at the corner of Jessica’s lips. “You wanna ride me?”

Wynonna honest to god groans. “Fuck, yes,” she says, and the tone, almost tilted up in the end in a question, implies that Jessica would be ridiculous to even frame that as a question. 

It takes some maneuvering to get in the right position, and when Wynonna has to stand to get out of the way she stumbles. 

Jessica laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. 

    “I’m not even really drunk anymore,” Wynonna admits. “I’m like...drunk on sex, you know what I mean?”

Jessica just gives her a look, and gestures for her to come closer. She’s laying on her back on the bed, and she’d look relaxed if her eyes didn’t scream mischief. 

    “I haven’t even dealt with you yet,” she nearly purrs.

She runs her hands along Wynonna’s thighs once she’s positioned above her, and she grips the headboard, already weak at the other girl’s touch. 

    “I’m really not only into you because I’m drunk,” Wynonna mumbles stupidly through a sigh as Jessica’s fingers spread her apart and her tongue darts against her clit.

    “I’m just...I don’t even know if I’m drunk anymore, I think I still am because I’m rambling but I’m  _ oh,  _ I never only liked you because I was drunk.”

Jessica chuckles, nose pressed against her thigh, and Wynonna reaches down a hand to smooth through her hair. Jessica reaches up to grasp onto her arm, rubbing it as she trails kisses back to Wynonna’s folds.

    “You’re sweet,” she murmurs. “You’re definitely still drunk, but you’re sweet and I appreciate the sentiment.” She takes a few moments to really lap at her, before stopping to spread her out even more. “I never only liked you because I was drunk either, by the way.”

Wynonna doesn’t know why she moans at that, why she clenches at her words alone. Jessica notices, but she doesn’t know what to make of it and she’s too intent on pleasing her to care, so she just keeps licking. 

    “Fingers or no fingers?” she asks when Wynonna’s hips start to move more above her. 

    “Soon,” she whines, voice strained. “Not yet.”

Jessica slips a finger down to her entrance seconds later, testing her briefly, just to see how she shakes for her. She does, beautifully, loud curse words stringing from her lips, and Wynonna changes her mind.

    “Fuck,” she stammers. “Never mind, now now  _ now”— _

Jessica shushes her, then does as she asks. Wynonna rides her face, rides her fingers and her hand and she’s needy, unafraid to press close and moan for what she needs, and Jessica likes it. 

She grips the headboard, knuckles white, and she’s torn between throwing her head back or staring down at Jessica, watching her as she sucks, kisses, licks, pushes, and does everything Wynonna needs, mercifully. She ends up alternating, letting her body do what it wants— a hand coming to her breast, squeezing, a finger trailing up her chest, to her mouth where she sucks it, still tasting Jessica on her skin. She grinds, hard, and comes with a flood of pants and sighs and desperate pleas.

She falls back on the bed with a loud heaving  _ “fuck”  _ and Jessica laughs. She licks her lips and Wynonna can’t help but laugh too.

    “God, you’re good.”

    “Dangerous?” she asks, repeating her sentiment from earlier. 

Wynonna nods, swallowing hard. “Definitely dangerous. Definitely needing to be a regular thing. Definitely deserving of another round in about ten minutes.”

Jessica looks smug. “I’ll go all night, Earp.” 

She stands, albeit shakily and then moves around the bed.

    “Where are you going?” Wynonna asks, eyes unable to leave her body. She’s toned, strong, beautiful.

    “Miss me already?” Jessica says. She’s beaming, and Wynonna feels a little honored to be able to see her like this. She’s stoic and cold and hard to read, to most people, at least, but Wynonna has her, smiling and naked and vulnerable in  _ her  _ bedroom.   

    “I’m just going to the bathroom. Want more whiskey?”

    “Always,” Wynonna replies, and once the bathroom door is shut she grins like an idiot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely want to continue this, although I don't have a direct storyline that I'm planning out at the moment. I just love writing these two together so much so I’m seeing where it takes me. If you have any prompts or requests let me know in the comments or at my Tumblr, sweeterthankarma!


	3. The Fifth Night

They meet again the next night, and the night after that, and then the afternoon after that because Jessica has something to do later. She doesn’t elaborate but it’s not like Wynonna needs her to; she’s too distracted by her mouth and her hips and her body and her _ everything. _

Wynonna is used at hookups and one night stands, and she has a feeling Jessica is too. She’s good at them, after all. 

It feels like more than a one night stand, though, to both of them, but Wynonna brushes the thought off by reminding herself that it’s  _ multiple  _ night stands, after all. Still, she finds herself counting down the hours until Jessica knocks on her door, or more often, lets herself in without any indication that she’s arrived. She’s been bringing some of her own alcohol to share, which she honestly considers a bigger gesture of intimacy than sex, and she offers sex toys too, many which surprise Wynonna. 

    “I figured you more as a showerhead kind of girl,” Wynonna laments, definitely not complaining, as she watches Jessica slip lubed fingers over a medium sized dildo— black, matching her style, of course.

    “I can do that too,” she replies with a quirk of her eyebrows before dipping beneath Wynonna’s legs, hooking them over her shoulders and pressing the tip of the silicone into her entrance. Wynonna moans, so loud she almost laughs at her exaggeration, but she’s not ashamed, and neither is Jessica; her noises urge her to do more, to give her more. 

    “What can’t you do?” Wynonna breathes out, and then Jessica’s thrusting the dildo into her before she can quip any longer, and she rides out her orgasm fast and lingering.

She’s never had sex this good, if she’s being honest. Unforseen, Jessica’s also a damn good cuddler, and she likes to do it. Wynonna does too, especially when her head rests on Jessica’s bare chest and she feels loose fingers carding through her hair, soft and easy. In those moments, she doesn’t feel so alone.

The fifth day, Jessica doesn’t text or call at all. Wynonna keeps herself busy— Jessica left one of her vibrators, and she’d sent some suggestive texts last night that left just enough to the imagination— but she also goes grocery shopping and buys actual vegetables that she actually plans on cooking. She texts Jessica about it—  _ “I just went to the store and walked right past the donut section without stopping, you should be proud of me” _ — but she doesn’t get an answer. 

She tries not to think about it, but she worries she’s being too clingy. Wynonna Earp, clingy— it’s nothing she’s ever been and nothing she ever expected for herself, but she also never expected to be in Norway, or to be having sex with a woman. Not that she’d never thought about it, but she never expected to like it so much or to initiate it herself or to be thinking so much about the woman involved. Life is just  _ a lot  _ right now. 

It’s just that something feels off. It’s nine PM and Jessica is MIA, and then it’s ten and then eleven and then twelve and Wynonna still hasn’t heard from her. She blames her concern on the fact that she knows Jessica is here for a bad reason, for something secret that she can’t talk about. Her knowledge on the dark-haired, gorgeous stranger is slim to none, but this is obvious. She’s in a similar situation, after all, and Jessica seems to be mimicking her own actions to maintain the discrepancy. They’re both walking a delicate, fragile line, and they’re both well aware of it.

Wynonna watches a Norwegian musical, of all things, to pass the time, and she finds herself wishing she had someone to laugh about it with. It’s old and cheesy and nobody can even sing well, but she thinks Waverly would probably like it.

Waverly. She could text her, but she knows her number is blocked. She could get a burner phone, but what’s the use? She thinks any amends are futile; she’ll likely only fuck up their relationship more than she already has, and Waverly doesn’t deserve that. She’s better off without her, able to live her perfect Purgatory life and make a new name for herself. Hell, maybe she’ll even go by Gibson from now on. Wynonna wouldn’t blame her if she did, she’d do the same thing if she was in her place.

She still misses her, though.

There’s a sweet moment between a brother and sister in the movie, unrealistic but still touching, and Wynonna changes the channel to the news. She can’t understand it because it’s in Norwegian, but she watches anyway, trying to follow along with the hand gestures and videos that accompany every new segment. By the time she’s half an hour in, she’s drank enough whiskey to start convincing herself that she’s fluent in the language, and then she figures out how to turn on the subtitles to see if she’s getting any of it right. She isn’t. 

She starts to think about Waverly again, and then she wonders about whether Jessica has any siblings. 

It’s too much, too soon, so she gets up and takes a shower to busy herself, to ease her drunken limbs that already feel far too heavy. 

When she steps out, her phone is lit up. A current call from Jessica, and two missed calls. Shit. Did she miss a message about meeting somewhere else rather than at her apartment, or is she mad about something, or is she outside the door to pick up her vibrator or her whiskey or to join Wynonna in the shower this time? (She has a feeling if it was the latter, Jessica would already be here, doorbell be damned.)

She answers the phone with a quick hello and is greeted with a strained, “where are you?”

There’s a crackle on the other end, and then something that sounds like a sob. Jessica distinctly coughs, then mumbles Wynonna’s name.

Wynonna’s heart drops, just a little bit.

She abandons her towel and puts her phone on speaker mode, already hurrying into her bedroom to look for clothes, wishing she’d helped herself out and picked which pajamas to wear before she stepped into the shower.

    “Jess? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

It sounds like Jessica’s spitting on the other line, but Wynonna can’t really tell through the rustle of her shirt over her head. 

    “I’m at my place,” Jessica says. “I was at a bar and I rode my bike there and someone stole my bike so I got into a fight with them and—” she hiccups, sniffing, “I’m too drunk.”

    “You? Too drunk?” Wynonna says, joke lacking it’s punch as she combs her hair quickly, definitely missing a lot of spots that will later be tangled. “I’m coming over. Don’t leave.”

    “Okay,” Jessica answers, and the relief is evident in her voice. 

    “Call me if you need me before I get there,” Wynonna replies. “Text me anything you want me to pick up on the way, and let’s pray I don’t get lost.”

Jessica laughs weakly. “I just need you.”

Wynonna doesn’t know how to respond to that, and the line goes dead before she has to. She hurries to her car, Jessica’s words echoing in her ear as the cold air brutally assaults her open skin. Her wet hair doesn’t help either and her sweatpants are far too thin but she barely notices; she only feels a faint warmth in her chest, all Jess’s doing. 

    “I’m becoming a fucking softie,” she mutters to herself as she pulls out of her parking spot, and then scoffs. She’s talking to herself, after all. About feelings. About someone she’s merely hooking up with. She’s never done that before.

She’s going to try not to again.

  
  


To say Jessica is bruised is an understatement.

    “I’ve never seen this color before,” Wynonna muses when she applies lotion to her cheek, and Jessica swats her free hand at that. She’s smiling, though, before she winces. 

    “Sorry, I’ll try not to make you laugh,” Wynonna says softly as she brushes Jessica’s hair behind her ear. It’s caked with dirt but still soft, just like how it was days ago when Wynonna had gripped it as Jessica sucked languidly at her thighs. “But Jesus, you took a beating.”

Jessica sighs, deep and tired. “Yeah, and I never do.”

Wynonna hums at that. “You  _ are _ pretty strong.”

    “I have super strength,” Jessica says as nonchalantly as she can. She’s never admitted it to anyone, at least not anyone who didn’t need to know, and she regrets her words already as she watches Wynonna process her words. She sits up straight, snorts and starts to come up with something funny to say, but Jessica’s face is serious. She notices.

    “Are you not kidding?”

Jessica leans over and grabs the nearest object— the faucet on the sink— and single handedly rips it off, letting it balance loosely between her fingertips, as if it’s nothing at all. 

Wynonna’s jaw has dropped a little bit. “Are...aren’t you going to need that?” is the first thought that leaves her mouth.

Jessica shrugs, not seeming to care. Wynonna’s still frozen, watching her with a distinct air of awe, and Jessica can’t help but smile at her, a real smile. She moves with intention and leans in, suddenly overcome with the tender urge to kiss her, but then she pulls away, correcting herself, and she focuses her attention back onto the box of bandages at her side. She already cares for this woman far more than she should, she needs to reign herself in. 

This subtle ache, this  _ need  _ for Wynonna to be around, even just in a sexual sense, is far more than she’s ever experienced with anyone, at least after she’d gotten her heart broken a few times and actively tried to avoid damaging it again. She sees the way Wynonna looks at her too, sees the way she tries to hide it, and she recognizes her facade all too well because it’s the same one she’s trained herself to master. They both have far more secrets than they have the liberty to share, and Jessica can’t believe she was the first to confess.

    “It’s not a big deal,” she says as she sticks bandages on her bruised knees. She doesn’t really need them and she should probably save them, but she needs to keep herself busy.

    “You just broke your sink to show off to me, I’d say it’s a pretty big deal,” Wynonna says.

She scoffs. “That wasn’t even the least of the shit I can do.”

As soon as the words leave her mouth she thinks maybe she should have phrased them differently, that they were too smug, but no, Wynonna is looking at her with more mesmerization than she’s ever seen her have, even compared to how she looked at her last night when she finally tore her wet lips away from her wet clit, satisfied. No, this time it’s different, and Wynonna’s still staring. 

This time Jessica can’t help herself; she pushes forward, even as her knees and ribs and cheeks ache, and she kisses Wynonna, slowly, softly, sweetly.

Wynonna lets her kiss her, lets her do most of the work, and Jessica likes it. She nips at her lips, parts them and slips closer against her, until her arms are around her neck and Wynonna’s hands are gentle on her back, circling her waist and she lets herself sigh. 

It doesn’t escalate. It stays fairly chaste, except for when Wynonna kisses her jawline, and Jessica squirms to pull off her shirt; Wynonna surprises herself when she declines and eases Jessica back onto the tile floor and makes sure she’s received care everywhere she needs it. Her mind darts to the scene between them last night— Jessica sprawled out on the bed, gripping fistfuls of sheets as Wynonna had settled on her knees before her and eased her to her greedy release— but now isn’t the time for that moment to recreate itself.

Jessica rolls her eyes when Wynonna asks her multiple times if she’s okay to stand. 

    “This isn’t my first bar fight,” she says, but her voice gives away to her exhaustion. “But it’s my first Norwegian bar fight.”

Wynonna chuckles. “I’d say we drink to that, but I think that’d be counterintuitive.”

Jessica laughs at that. Wynonna tucks the first aid kit away under the sink cabinet without even knowing whether that’s where it goes, and she follows Jessica, who’s half-walking, half-limping down the hallway. The sight before her is surprisingly endearing, even as she feels sorry for her, and she tries not to laugh. She fails, and Jessica doesn’t care.

    “Thanks for coming tonight,” Jessica mumbles sleepily against her pillow once she’s in bed and dragged Wynonna along with her. Her breath is warm on Wynonna’s neck, and she tries not to shiver. 

Jessica’s hand finds hers under the sheets, and it’s suddenly quiet, too quiet. 

    “Thanks for coming last night,” Wynonna replies lowly, quippy because she doesn’t know any other way to be, and because Jessica had simply set that one up perfectly for her.

Jessica laughs and nips a quick kiss on her neck. Wynonna squeezes her hand, and then that’s it. They sleep.

It’s the first time they lay in bed and drift asleep without tiring themselves out from the sex before. Like most things, it feels like a pivotal moment, but also like nothing at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr under the same username, where I'm reblogging far too many gifs of these two at ungodly hours of the night.


End file.
